


In Which Sherlock Holmes Discovers That Peanut Butter Is A Bitch To Get Out Of Briefs

by neonheartbeat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Why do I do this to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:07:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/neonheartbeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A three-word prompt on tumblr- "Sherlock, peanut butter, bathroom."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock Holmes Discovers That Peanut Butter Is A Bitch To Get Out Of Briefs

“Sherlock!” John’s voice echoed through the flat. “Sherlock, where are you?”

“In the bathroom, John,” answered a muffled voice from behind a closed door.

“For an hour?” yelled John, and hid the fact that there was a smile in his voice.

“For fifty-seven minutes and…six seconds, John; do try to be precise.”

John rolled his eyes, suppressing a grin. “What exactly are you doing in there, Sherlock?” 

“Think, John. What could I possibly be doing in a bathroom, with the door shut?” The voice was icy, on the verge of patronizing. 

“For fifty-seven minutes and…” John checked his watch, just to piss Sherlock off, “twelve seconds?”

“Yes, John. Now go away, please.” There was a bizarre noise from behind the bathroom door, and John fought back a fit of giggling, then decided he was going to have tea with Mrs. Hudson today.

And then perhaps go shopping for several new pairs of pants for Sherlock—but not before he confessed to the crime.

~

Sherlock stood in the bathroom, glaring furiously at the ten pairs of black boxer-briefs in the sink.

Ten pairs. All he owned. Every single pair he owned, completely full of peanut butter. How John had managed to get hold of every single pair was not a mystery--it was laundry day, and Sherlock had a habit of not wearing any pants for the entirety of laundry day so that all his pants were clean one the same day.

John had apparently noticed.

Sherlock cursed under his breath and resumed trying to scrub the stuff out of a pair that hung over the faucet.

Every bloody pair of pants he owned, covered in peanut butter. All a result of a ridiculously childish prank war that had gotten out of hand all too soon.

This was too far. All he’d done to deserve it was put black pepper in all of the jam—knowing that John was the only one in the flat who ate jam—and then sat back smugly as they had tea with a Welsh politician who’d had some kind of court document stolen, smirking to himself as John’s face turned bright red and he hurriedly excused himself with a venomous parting glare at Sherlock.

But peanut butter in his pants? How _ridiculously childish._

Sherlock’s arms were tired. He’d been scrubbing at the damned things for nearly an hour and there was peanut butter in the sink, on the floor, on the faucet, on the knobs.

It rather went without saying that there was peanut butter all over him too. Of course he couldn’t have put on his underpants, seeing as they were full of peanut butter. Of course he couldn’t go without pants in front of John now. So he’d opted to leave his clothes in his room and take care of this with minimal danger to the rest of his clothing.

Perhaps Mrs. Hudson knew a way to get peanut butter out of cotton, he thought hopefully. Didn't old ladies know how to get anything out of everything?

Quickly, he grabbed a towel and tucked it tight about his hips.

~

“Molly, dear, so glad you could come over for tea,” chirped Mrs. Hudson. “Go on, sit down.”

“Is Sherlock here?” asked Molly, dropping her white coat on the back of her chair. “I brought the Shackleton report along—I know he wanted to look it over.”

“Sherlock’s…busy,” said John, and gave her a wide smile. She smiled back, unsure of the joke.

The door flew open. “Ah, Mrs. Hudson,” said a polished baritone, “you wouldn’t happen to…”

Molly squeaked and turned pink all the way to her ears, then looked very hurriedly at her plate.

Mrs. Hudson clucked. and looked mildly disapproving “Oh, Sherlock, what is it? And where are your clothes?”

John pressed his lips together, fighting hard against the urge to laugh.

“My clothes, Mrs. Hudson…are damaged.” Sherlock’s gaze bored through John. If he stared any harder, John thought, he’d make a hole in the wall. 

“Damaged with what?” asked Mrs. Hudson worriedly.

“Never you mind what,” snapped Sherlock, at the exact same time John blurted out, “Peanut butter.”

They stared at each other, and Mrs. Hudson gave Molly a helpless shrug, and Molly dared a bewildered glance at Sherlock.

“Oh, hello, Molly,” said Sherlock suddenly, quite cheerful. “How are you?”

“I—uh, hello,” said Molly, and tried to get a smile on her face before he turned away—ah, too late. _Again._

“Did you bring the Shackleton report?” 

“Ye—”

“Good! I don’t need it anymore, you can chuck it. Mrs. Hudson, Molly… _John_ …I am going back upstairs.”

And he turned to go with as much dignity as would be allowed him—except that his towel snagged on the doorjamb as he passed through and fell to the floor.

Mrs. Hudson squeaked and turned away, Molly’s eyes grew wide as saucers, and John calmly stirred his tea as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock simply picked his towel up, slung it over his shoulder, and left the kitchen with the remaining shreds of his aforementioned dignity.

(They could hear him swearing upstairs for an hour.)


End file.
